


For Better or Worse

by Amethyst97Skye



Series: Dragon Age One-Shots [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Attempt at Humor, Cliffhangers, Disfigurement, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Mages vs. Templars, Pain, Scars, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 15:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14751420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: A fool. That was what he was, what he would always be, for failing to see the obvious.





	For Better or Worse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kayura_sanada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/gifts).
  * Inspired by [People Come Into Our Lives](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886122) by [kayura_sanada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada). 



He should have known when they first met, should have realised the truth when she stared him straight in the face. Even with his eyes closed, he should have known. Enchanted weaponry was expensive, and for freelancing mercenaries to get a hold of that kind of coin, and in such a short timeframe… Hawke had only been in Kirkwall a year when he first arrived, and less than two when they were formally introduced. Shooting an arrow into the slaver’s skull behind him was effective, if unwarranted. He knew the bastard was there, but who was he to refuse the aid and intelligence of an overwhelmingly successful mercenary?

     A fool. That was what he was, what he would always be, for failing to see the obvious.

     She sat down, in the dirt and blood and bodily wastes of their enemies, pulled out a book, and started listing off names of the wealthy and well-to-do in Hightown. Halfway through, she apologised, claiming that the list was “out of date”, and proceeded to cross off several names. Her companions reflected on various missions that, apparently, included killing a Magister. Hawke looked… surprised at that, and turned to ask the beardless dwarf – Varric Tethras, a self-proclaimed storyteller – if that was the man they caught with his pants down or the one they found sleeping with a giant spider. Varric was clearly affronted that he had not been privy to either of these missions and demanded details over drinks later. He was even invited to accompany them. He wanted to accept, truly believing that with them around – or, at least, with Hawke and Varric at his back – he could shrug off ambushes as minor inconveniences. Then Hawke said the magic words, and they climbed to the peak of the city to raid his master’s mansion. That was where the truth reared its ugly head.

     The Guardsman –  _woman_  – remained in the Alienage, clearing up the damage they left behind: mercenaries, slavers, and two apostate mages among their ranks. At least the elves would be safer, if only marginally. Fortunately, the searing “enchantments” had the diligent effect of burning through their enemies’ armour, and cauterising their wounds, leaving minimal evidence of the slaughter. It was just the kind of thing a mage would do; not solely to avoid raising suspicion, or to keep their robes clean – not that Hawke wore them, which had alarmed him more than learning that she was, in fact, a mage because, damn it, she outsmarted him – but to prove that they could, that  _she_  could do something no one else could, that she held power over them. Over  _him_. A fact he would never forget, not that she would ever let him.

     The Shades he expected. The Rage demon, he did not, and Hawke’s cry of “Arcane Horror” froze his blood. For a moment, he feared that he had actually been frozen, that Danarius was hiding in one of the wings, obscured by the shadows, a command on the tip of his vile tongue, dagger poised to cleave flesh and draw upon the power of his blood. But then the demons were dead, the Arcane Horror – “It’s… created when a Pride demon takes over a mage’s corpse,” Hawke explained – a pile of steaming rags on the floor, and Danarius had yet to appear, yet to attack, yet to negotiate for the safe return of his property. He made his case to Hawke who was, obviously, in charge. Her brother, the wild and reckless excuse for a warrior, started laughing, but he did not care about the brat. Hawke was sensible. Hawke would understand.

     “Fenris…”

     Hawke was a mage. He watched her summon a small flurry of snowflakes in the palm of her hand and was, momentarily, captivated by the glistening, shimmering patterns the crystals paved over the walls. They were beautiful.  _She_  was beautiful, bathed in a pale halo of ethereal light, her skin shining like Silverite, the luminous glow highlighting the blue sky pitched behind her steel-grey eyes. Then she clenched her hand, forming a fist, and swallowed the magic, the mirage, and he felt cold. When she stepped forward, hands outstretched – no doubt ready to cast, to claim what Danarius had sent her to recover – he lunged to meet her, grasping her by the throat and lifting her high, feet dangling half a foot from the floor, to slam her head against the closest wall. He could have killed her. He  _should_  have killed her. Half a breath, a second’s thought, and he could have ripped her windpipe out, watched her choke to death, starved of air as he had once been deprived of blood. He could have – should have – but he did not. Varric had his strange crossbow-like contraption aimed at his head, and the brat had drawn his greatsword. The longer he looked, the more certain he was that the blade rippled, as if the metal were alive, an enchanted, sentient weapon. Regardless of their relationship, antagonistic as it might be, he would defend his sister, to the death if need be, and that blade would see him succeed in, at least, crippling him. If Varric escaped, there would be nowhere in Kirkwall – nowhere in the Free Marches – for him to hide.

     With one last tight squeeze, Fenris shifted, permitting his hand to flash through her skull and brain, leaving the witch reeling on the ichor caked floor. He turned on his heels and left without a backwards glance. It was only after two circuits of the city, and half a dozen lowlifes later, that his mind began to clear, and with this new certainty came dread, and doubt, and a crushing sense of despair. Hawke had Danarius’ name in her little black book, had already killed one Magister (even if the method of execution sounded a little… unorthodox). There was no telling what else she knew, what else she was capable of, and if she feared for her life, or her brother grew a brain, then they might try to contact him directly. 

     There was nothing for it. He had to… to apologise. Rash judgement and flight-or-fight responses had gotten him this far, but Kirkwall was a beast beyond compare, and Hawke would know the streets like the back of her hand. Much as he was loathed to admit it, he needed her, and so fierce was his fury that he got lost, twice, in his attempt to find the Hanged Man. Anso had introduced him to the tavern, the best and worst that Kirkwall had to offer, but he had a reason not to get drunk, and no reason to celebrate. Instead of arriving in an obscure corner of Lowtown, Fenris found himself, somehow, walking through the streets of Hightown. Danarius’ mansion loomed before him in the distance. It was as good a place as any to rest, not that he would get much sleep, but it was better than lingering in the alleys at night. He had nothing of worth for the damned and desperate to steal, but not all of them were stupid, and he could not afford another confrontation so soon.

     The door was unlocked, the entry hall and main foyer devoid of all life - the skeletons did not count - but in the ballroom, he caught sight of a pale, prone figure lying on the floor. A broken bow leaned forlornly against the wall, and a trail of arrows fanned out across the moth-eaten carpet. Most were corrupted and unrecoverable, the stubborn residue of demon entrails clinging to the stone like the lyrium branded into his skin. Both the brat and the dwarf were nowhere to be seen.

     He approached warily, swallowing thickly, fearful that he had, indeed, killed her, and that her corpse might invite unwanted guests. She stirred, turning her head in such a manner that her brackish blonde hair, once plastered against her face, fell away. It revealed an imposing mountain range of scars; puckered, discoloured skin meshed in twisted crevasses that mutated half her skull into something abominable. One of her eyebrows was missing, part of her lip had been warped into a permanent frown displaying her teeth, and there was a large gouge missing from her gaunt left cheek. Beneath, the skin coating her throat had turned red, burnt and blistered and bloody with pinpricks of ice shards coating the wound.

     “I’m up. I’m up,” she insisted, voice croaking, lungs rasping.

     He would not feel sorry for her. He would not.

     “Why haven’t you healed yourself?”

     She froze halfway between positions, body tensing like the bowstring she primed. She did not open her eyes but, instead, hissed out a heavy breath between her teeth as she rose, slowly, into a sitting position, her back braced against the wall, shoulders hunched and arms stiff, but slack, like a cornered animal surrendering to the might of a predator. He wanted to lord such a position over Danarius, but it felt, at that moment, unnatural. To see her cowering, waiting for a blow that would never come – he had  _some_  self-restraint, after all – while he reclined on his haunches, amused and disturbed in equal measures.

     “You can heal yourself, can’t you? Or, do you need blood to do that?”

     Hawke snarled so fiercely that her face was torn apart; old scars, far more recent than Fenris first expected, began bleeding afresh, painting her ghostly, smoky flesh in a wine marinade. It granted her a distinctly inhuman, and feral, expression. She stared at him, unblinking, for several heartbeats, and his eyes were, inevitably, drawn to her left, the socket sunken and hollow, the eye clouded and bloodshot.

     “Why would you care?” she spat, and Fenris had to strain his ears to hear her.

     He would not feel sorry for her. He would  _not_. She put herself in this position.

     “I let you live, didn’t I?”

     Her snarl tried to lift itself, and she made a valiant attempt at a smile, one that sent shivers running down his spine. Such an expression did not belong on any mortal face.

     “A tactical choice, I’m sure. What better way to gain their approval then to hand them an apostate?”

     It had been a necessary choice, but he was not working for anyone. Mages, he knew, went for a high price at the market, but he was not a Magister or a Slaver.

     “Just what are you insinuating, mage?”

     Perhaps it was the growl in his voice or the threat that lingered in his words, but Fenris did not think so; it had never made a Slaver, much less a Mage, shake with fear.

     Her face fell into what Fenris defined as her default expression, one of distant abjection.

     “A slave – a  _former_  slave,” she corrected quickly, weighing the word carefully, “needs allies. Who better to turn to than the Templars? Though, I’d be wary with Meredith. The Knight-Commander. She’s the real power behind the Viscount, and she doesn’t care a lick about slavery. Probably pockets a nice profit for all the elves, mages and Tranquil she lets slip through her fingers. Why would anyone miss them? No one cares in Kirkwall.”

     “Are you done?”

     He sincerely hoped she was.

     “Pretty much,” she shrugged. It seemed to take a lot of effort to create a careless, casual air. “Oh. Talk to Varric after lunch tomorrow. Tell him we kissed and made up.”

     “WHAT?"

     Hawke rolled her eyes. One did a short circuit of its socket. The other appeared to revolve in place. She did not display any signs of discomfort, bar the oppression of constant pain.

      “You can’t hunt Danarius on your own.”

      “No, but why would you offer your aid?”

     And what would she demand of him in return?

     “Not mine. Varric’s.”

     “But you work together.”

     His legs were tired, he was tired, so he sat on the floor, heedless of the gore, blood, and ichor. He could clean his armour later.

     Again, Hawke shrugged, wincing this time, a flicker of teeth revealing themselves.

     “Having a spy in the Circle will be useful, but it’ll be hard to help you from the Gallows.”

     Fenris was less than impressed.

     “I’m not going to kill you. Much as I might want to.”

     “Feeling’s mutual," she agreed, nodding sagely as if he had said something profound. “Though, the Templars might steal your thunder.”

     “If a Southern Templar kills Danarius –”

     “Not him, you idiot. Me!”

     Shouting grated Hawke's voice raw, forcing it to contort into something less than human, less than the bestial war cries he heard from the breasts of bloodthirsty Tal-Vashoth.

     “Why would the Templars want to kill you?”

     For a moment, Hawke just stared, mouth agape, blood trailing over her twisted lips.

     “You did  _not_  just ask that question.”

     “Pretend I did.”

     An abrupt bubble of laughter escaped her throat, transforming into a cough mid-journey, forcing her to vomit bile and blood and tiny, minute ice crystals. They looked like precious blue diamonds. Might even be worth just as much to the right person.

     “Look,” she wheezed, “if they sent you back here to… to keep me from escaping, don’t worry. I’m not going any… anywhere anytime soon.”

     “I haven’t seen the dwarf. Or your… brother.”

     Were she someone else, Fenris would have been convinced that she was, at that moment, praying for strength. She was, more likely, cursing his entire existence, and that did not concern him in the slightest. If she was really going to curse him, she would need blood, and she seemed oblivious to just how much she had lost. Even Magisters had their limits, and it was obvious that Hawke had long since surpassed her own.

     “Did you hit your head during that fight or something?”

     Fenris just raised an eyebrow. He was beginning to think they were having two very different conversations. She opened her mouth, probably to insult him, given the furious expression on her face, but stopped herself short, snapping her jaw shut instead. All the life and fury drained from her features in an instant.

     “You should probably go.”

     “Go?”

     Hawke nodded so slowly, it was as if the act took every ounce of effort she possessed.

     “They might think you’re complicit. Or bewitched. Or possessed. Or they might just want to eliminate any witnesses they find. Less paperwork that way.”

     “Paperwork? What –”

     He heard the door slam open, felt the impact reverberate through the wall, smelled the tang of impure lyrium. Templars. He was on in his feet in an instant, counting voices – four, no, five, all male – and cursing under his breath.

     “Hey. Hey!” Hawke hissed, voice blunt in a way that dug under his skin. “I know it’s personal, but if you could…” She swallowed, blinked back tears. They ran red down her grey cheeks. “If you could tell Varric where I’ve gone, I’d appreciate it. He’ll know how to ring a confession out of them. Give my mother some peace of mind.”

     “Search every room! I want this entire mansion quarantined until we find the maleficar responsible for this! You two: guard the door. Nothing gets past you.”

     “Yes, Ser!” they chimed. 

     Templars. Southern Templars. It turned his stomach, how their presence twisted his senses. Ordinarily, Fenris would welcome them with open arms, but Kirkwall bred a very different kind of hunter, one that did not care for the quarry they killed. As for their precious maleficar, did they not know long a mage's magic could linger after their death? There was every chance that the Arcane Horror summoned the demons and refreshed the stench of blood magic. Old and worn, but undeniably there, present in the air, the walls, the floor, their very flesh.

     “Try using a window,” Hawke advised, inclining her head in the balcony’s general direction. “I’ll lock it after you.”

     Fenris had a sharp retort on his tongue but swallowed it. She showed no intention of even trying to escape with him, no indication of fighting, no reason or will to live. It sounded so wrong, felt so fake. He half expected a dagger in the back - had forgotten to remove it from her belt - but Hawke made no move to claim it, to claim him. She did nothing except breath, slowly and steadily, willing herself to calm.

     “But why?”

     “To kill Danarius, of course.”

     “No! Why aren’t you fighting? Why give up?”

     “No magic and fatal wounds make for a pretty poor partnership. Nice of you to keep me company, though. But, you really should go.”

     It hit him in the face like a charging bull.

     “They’re going to kill you.”

     “If they’re feeling merciful.”

     “And if they’re not?”

     “Torture or Tranquillity. Might be both if they’re bored, but I don’t work well with lyrium, so… why fight the inevitable?”

     Why fight the inevitable? Yes, he felt like that, once. Then he felt what it was like to be free, to make his own choices, to live as the Maker intended. Then Danarius returned and the dream ended. But it was  _real_. The people that cared for him, nursed him back to health, gave him the food off of their table, taught him their language, their way of life. Their blood stained his hands because, once, he felt just as Hawke did. Why fight against an unconquerable foe? But Danarius was mortal. He could bleed and he could die. Templars were no different.

     “Get up.”

     Hawke complied. There was no argument, no accusation, nothing but resigned obedience. The prickling under his skin had nothing to do with his brands. She was slower than he liked, but she stood, swayed, leaned against the wall for support, legs shaking, chest heaving, her skin slack and sallow.

     “If you want a rematch, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

     Fenris had drawn his greatsword, a gift he could never repay, but took one look at Hawke, and sheathed it again. She could not fight. She could barely stand. Why fight the inevitable? 

     He took to the window, unlatched the doors that led to the balcony. A two storey drop into the dead garden below. Nothing to break their fall, nothing to hide them from view, and no trace of a secondary escape route.

     “But he had to have one… just in case.”

     “An escape route…?”

     He rounded on Hawke, who was giving him an odd look, one that belonged on an ignorant child, not a magically deformed woman. There was nothing natural about those injuries. No stave blade or sword made them. He was sure of that. He blamed the blood loss. She would lose consciousness, and soon.

     “Danarius traded in blood, flesh, and bone. If there wasn’t one, he’d have made one.”

     “Some of the older estates have tunnels that open up in Darktown. I’d try the kitchen, first.”

     “Then lead the way.”

     That the words, once he recognised them, fell so easily from his lips, and of his own free will, should have shocked him. Hawke appeared to be like-minded.

     “What?”

     “We’re leaving, Hawke.”

     “We…?”

     Fenris was wrong. It was not ignorance but innocence, the hope and optimism of a child forced to watch the world shift, change, and transform before their very eyes. He offered out a hand and Hawke stared back with bewildering disbelief. He deserved that, but he did not deserve the second chance she offered him by accepting such an unlikely alliance.

     “Lieutenant! Any sign of them?”

     “No, Captain.”

     “Keep searching. I want this bastard hanging from the Gallows before dawn!”

     Hawke closed her eyes. What little colour she still possessed disappeared.

     “Oh, Cullen. Why…?”


End file.
